Follow The Night

CHAPTER ONE

Paris – 1780

Rumor has it the rake ripper lurks in the shadows, a demon in wait of pretty young men. He slashes their throats and dashes away, leaving the precieuse with his dignity staining his lace.

Madame de Marmonte studied the half circle of eager faces that clung to her every word. As salon hostess she made it her responsibility to report the latest rage, be it fashion, politics—even murder. But tonight concentration proved difficult. The hands on the tortoiseshell clock showed seven minutes before the midnight hour. Her star—where could he be?

The Ripper struck again two days ago behind the Palais Royale, Chevalier de Champvillon added in a feckless whisper. The black heart patch, stuck at the edge of his lips, creased as he pursed his mouth. The victim was, as usual, a handsome young rake of the aristocracy. When found, Monsieur Giscard’s throat had been slashed. Blood had pooled about his head and stained the white roses edging his garden. And yet, a diamond pin and ruby ring remained intact. Isn’t it remarkable the Ripper does not rob his victims?

Madame de Marmonte started to reply that a life was the ultimate robbery, when she heard something over the boxy notes of the harpsichord Mademoiselle Leuze taunted to a cruel adagio—the crisp jangle of gold chains. Diamond-encrusted watch fobs greedily clung to the final link of each sparkling chain. Two of them, if she was not mistaken—and she never was. Both tucked in a fine waistcoat of impeccable design. The wearer had introduced the fashion of double timepieces a month earlier during his debut.

Relief softened Madame de Marmonte’s tense jaw. A little-girl smile parted her tight lips into a peeling giggle. He had arrived.

Breaking from her devotees, she called gaily, Leo!

Yes, the single name. The man insisted it was the only name he possessed. Deliciously mysterious, which further increased his appeal.

Finally, the night could begin.

Hearing Madame de Marmonte’s contralto bellow, the muscles at the base of Leo’s neck tightened, but he maintained a calm visage. Well beyond a quarter of an hour late, he knew. The woman was a stickler for promptness.

Lifting his right hand and turning his wrist toward his chest, he let his fingers fall into a graceful pose, palm up. Alençon lace spilled over the narrow cuff of his velvet frock coat. The lace was all the rage, or so he’d been coached. Excess was always in vogue. And if Queen Marie Antoinette declared it du jour, the more the better.

While keeping his gaze wide and his mouth not quite in a smile—broad smiles were passé—Léo took in his audience.

Madame Rigaud fluttered a lace fan before her poxed face. The fan was powdered to disguise how yellow the lace had become; the pox had found welcome breeding ground on the old bundle’s flesh.

Chevalier Champvillon could not hide the strain on his face, a result of trying to suck in his tumescent gut while attempting a genial smile. Where had he found that brown striped waistcoat? Utterly vile, the color, like mud one scraped out from a horse’s hooves.

The twins, Violette and Viol would never quite grasp the notion that large wigs were on their way out. A cavalcade of ships and battle cannons sat upon their heads in nautical swirls of powdered, greasy, pomaded strands.

How the women of Paris lived exclusively to be admired.

Steady me, Toussaint, Leo muttered soto voce to the valet who winged him to the right.

Not enough hard ale in France, Toussaint quipped. But do avoid breathing Marmonte’s toxic air. Best of luck, good man.

Feeling Toussaint pull back, Leo drew in a settling breath. The same feeling overcame him at every salon he attended. And he had attended far too many in the last two months. They admired him as if he were a new marvel displayed in the shop windows of the Palais Royale. A queer veneration that made him uneasy.

Truly this façade of worship and ingratiating smiles had worn thin. But it did serve a means to an end.

Morbleu, he may as well be on to it. He would only remain the fashionable fifteen minutes. All things told, every moment felt like a lifetime.

The hostess swept the intricate Aubusson carpet in a boisterous sashay toward him.

Madame de Marmonte, do forgive me for inquiring the direction of your conversation? Certainly it must regard your exquisite selection in fabrics? Leo drew an eye along the vulgar red and orange dress, splattered with malicious geometrical shapes. Back, he coached the silly grin tickling his mouth. Indienne painted is quite the rage. Such vivid colors.

Oh, Leo!

Here comes the unavoidable. Steady, man.

He clamped his lips shut as Madame de Marmonte leaned in to buss both his cheeks. Unfortunately she could not hide her quest for slenderness, for her vinegar breath overwhelmed all who tread within arm’s reach. A nauseating wave stirred in his nostrils.

Quickly he curled his fingers round the diamond-capped walking stick he sported. That redirected the disgraceful urge to sneeze.

We were discussing the notorious Rake Ripper, Marmonte explained in a covert whisper designed to be loud enough for all to hear, and trying to decide why he never robs his victims.

A murderer’s mind is a queer place, Leo offered. Perhaps it is a lust for blood he seeks to fulfill.

The chevalier tilted his head and spoke wryly, You speak of lusts you know nothing about, Leo.

Touché. A wince curled behind Leo’s carefully controlled upper lip.

Indeed, Madame de Marmonte added in an enthusiastic bellow. You had best pay that valet accordingly to keep an eye in front as well as behind you, Leo.

Assuming a practiced pose, he splayed his fingers, beringed in ruby and sapphire. "Madame, you do not mean to imply I could become a victim?"

Oh, come! You are the prettiest of all the rogues who stroll the Bois de Boulogne in the afternoon. I am surprised you have not yet been cut.

The wince escaped. All elegance fled Leo’s stance. I am not sure how to regard such candor, Madame.

The Rake Ripper had tallied a dozen to his count within the past few months. Indeed, all victims were precieuses, pretty young fops with no care beyond the latest vogue, and living the grand life thanks to a generous inheritance. Their playgrounds were the finest shops and gambling dens at the Palais Royale, and on the weekends, the gardens of Versailles.

Forgive me, Leo. Marmonte slid a hand to rest upon his crooked arm. Vinegar dizzied his senses. That was most uncouth.

The circle of wide-eyed sycophants nodded mechanically in agreement.

It is only that we wish to keep you for ourselves. What would Paris do without your stunning fashion sense?

His crowning achievement. A masterful disguise, if ever there was one. Leo’s faux smile slipped. You think I do not know of such things as the darker pleasures, Madame? I know some things.

I am sure you do. Marmonte had a tiny grin that flickered in her pale gray eyes more than moving her mouth. "But I have never considered murder a pleasure."

Nor have I. Leo slipped one of the watches from his waistcoat pocket and observed ten minutes had already passed. How time crept. Strange bastard who’s killing those men. I shudder to consider such a crime.

Oh, but you should not. Worry pales your countenance, Leo. Do tell us about this fabulous frock coat you wear. It is as if it changes color!

Why, indeed, it does.

The flock of admirers gathered around him, yet his gaze slipped to where the movement of bold red velvet cast a wicked slash amongst the sea of fashionable whites and grays. The skirt of the frock coat, encrusted with thick gold lace reminiscent of Louis XIII, moved about the wearer’s hips, a garish frill. Such attire had surely been excavated from the previous century. How had the man gained entry when Madame de Marmonte was noted for shutting her door in the faces of those sans fashion a la mode?

What is the name of the color? the chevalier entreated.

Hmm? Leo could not pull his gaze from the oddity. Wide cuffs could have stored a loaf of bread up each sleeve. And that soot-black wig. It swept down the man’s back in a multitude of unsuitable sausage rolls. Leo?

He swung a look to the chevalier Champvillon, and landed on the old man’s saggy jowls.

Er? He adjusted his straying attention. Yes, the color is Moonlight Violets. Monsieur Bousset on the rue Saint Honoré sells it exclusively, he added rotely.

Ah, my dear Leo, Marmonte bellowed as she noticed his distraction. I must introduce you to Monsieur Anjou. He is from distant Provence. She led him from the mindless flock that chaffered enthusiastically about a visit to Bousset’s shop on the morrow. Though to judge from his accent one would think him merely a Normandy bourgeois.

You admit him in such attire?

She shrugged. "Rumor whispers he’s royalty in his lineage. The Valois, I believe. As for his attire, he is merely eccentric. All the Parisian precieuses have their foibles, as you well know."

Yes, but Leo’s foibles were necessary, and not distasteful to the eye.

Dark eyes alighting at Marmonte’s beckoning, the tall stranger crossed the room in a few jaunty strides. He bowed grandly before Leo, sweeping his hand to the ground and stretching a leg out behind him in a courtly bow. Red-heeled shoes, as well—a court standard. Why, then, was he slumming at the Marmonte salon?

Leo, I take great pleasure in introducing you to Monsieur Anjou.

No title? Could not possibly be royalty. It had been some time since Leo had appeared at court—wisely, he avoided the king’s wrath. Were they admitting commoners now?

Monsieur Anjou has been in Paris for a few months after a most adventurous excursion to the Americas.

Such adventure. Despite its vogue, Leo cared very little for any news regarding America. He maintained interest with difficulty.

Monsieur Anjou, this is our very own Leo, the star of my humble salon.

Known by but a single moniker. Intriguing. The man offered a forced smile. As if he were bothered by such an introduction. Why the rude piece of anachronistic fluff!

What is infinitely more intriguing, Leo said tersely, "is your remarkable taste in anachron— er, antique attire. Where did you find the gold lace, Monsieur Anjou? It looks to be real, not the gold threading currently the rage."

The man fondled the jabot coiled about his neck, though he kept a cool eye on Leo. It is actually an heirloom. Coal eyes did not waver from Leo. Such nerve to look at him so directly. "I am not much for style, as you can see. That, as I understand, is why Madame de Marmonte displays—er, invites you here, yes?"

A verbal cut, but hardly enough to slice. I suppose it is.

Madame Marmonte offered, We’ve been discussing the Rake Ripper, Monsieur Anjou.

"A popular topic lately. The fellow seems intent on extinguishing every precieuse he can place his hands to. Quite the rake yourself, eh, Leo?"

The sudden hysteric gesture of flailing arms from behind Anjou caught Leo’s attention. He tilted his head to peer around Anjou’s bouffant of wig and arched a curious brow.

If you’ll excuse me, Leo said, cautioning a smirk. It appears my valet strives to develop the newest dance.

He nodded congenially to Monsieur Anjou and Madame de Marmonte as Toussaint crept up and whispered in his ear. Unwelcome tension tightened Leo’s fist. It was not anything he wished to hear. Not now, when he was engaged in the charade. How his past continued to find him, no matter the venue.

Forgive me, Madame, Monsieur, I must beg off.

What excuse for leaving? For the truth would surely attract an audience.

A glance fixed to Toussaint, wide-eyed and waiting. Where did the man procure his clothing? At the Monday market in the Place de Greve? Did they not sell clothing peeled from corpses there? All the same, it would serve a useful distraction.

Toussaint is a bit green to see Monsieur Manette dons the same Parakeet Wing as he this evening. It has become so common a color. Alas, I must hurry him away before the lackwit expires from embarrassment.

Always so elusive you are, Leo. You will show next Sunday, as usual?

May the Old Lad Himself set my lace on fire should I miss it.

Marmonte chuckled behind her fan and blew giggling peals at Leo’s retreating back.

With a jerk of his head, Gabriel Renan summoned the valet to his side. His alter ego, the foppish Leo, was always abandoned in the salon—Gabriel’s dignity demanded it.

His strides moved him quickly, heels clicking down the cracked marble floor. Social pretense slipping as quickly as his mincing gait, his jaw tightened and his voice hardened. Where is he?

Out back, Toussaint instructed. In the courtyard between the estate and the carriage run.

Perturbed, Gabriel tugged at the itchy lace ruffled about his wrist. Leo’s lace. He abhorred this fop’s costume. Yet if he wished to succeed at dispersing his inheritance the disguise was necessary.

Just the one?

All alone, Toussaint verified. No one to hear his mad meanderings.

Thank the gods for that small mercy. Gabriel turned the corner and slowed his pace. I do hope Leo begins climbing the social ladder soon. I tire of this charade, Toussaint.

Toussaint shuffled up behind him. Your hard work will pay off. You’ll be a poor man soon enough.

You believe so?

Yes, though you will save enough for living expenses?

Of course, Toussaint, it is only of the tainted money I wish to dispose.

Stepping outside, Gabriel stretched a look along the parking aisle that hugged the south side of the hornbeam-fenced estate. The air crackled with autumn crispness. Cypress leaves broke from their tethers and drifted to the cobblestones in fluttery winks of amber and gold. A dim oil lamp clinging to the corner of the house painted a pale sheen across the grounds.

A drunken squawk of surprise alerted him. Pale blue damask displayed runnels of burgundy wine down the left side of his coat. He stabbed the air with a finger, piercing Gabriel with an impotent dagger. His porcupine wig askew, and his wrinkled jabot undone, he spat out a spray of wine.

You! he managed with slippery lips and uneasy balance. Her son. I saw you through the window! Oh, he moaned and clutched his chest. I loved her…my Juin-Marie. Juin-Marie!

Gabriel rolled his eyes and shook his head. What miserable remnant from my mother’s past has come to haunt me this day?

She was mine! the drunk protested to the moon. "My Juin-Marie."

Another outburst like that and the entire salon would crowd outside to witness the spectacle. Gabriel could not have that—nor could Leo.

He twisted the diamond head of his walking stick and drew out a rapier from the cherrywood shaft.

The man stumbled across the courtyard, but saw Gabriel’s intentions and, with a crooked wine-spattered grin, withdrew a rapier from the concealed folds of his sodden frock coat. Not so inebriated as he would appear then.

Gabriel tossed the walking stick to Toussaint, who expertly caught it, crossed his arms and cast an observant eye upon the match.

She left me, the drunk spat. He stepped forward a pace, wobbled, shuffled back two steps, countering his wavering equilibrium. Yet his weapon remained on the mark for Gabriel’s heart.

Not yet compelled to go en garde, Gabriel merely shook his head. He strolled a half arc, mirroring his opponent’s ridiculous challenge. To face one in his cups? Hardly a man’s match. And to do so in heels and lace? Bother.

Tell me where she is! I die a new death each day that passes without my Juin-Marie!

Yet another of his mother’s discarded lovers. Did they never learn?

A thrust of his arm placed the point of Gabriel’s rapier to the drunk’s bobbing Adam’s apple. Drawing his weapon arm straight, he looked down the blade of cold steel at his misshapen opponent. Cease your idiot ranting. Go home. Sleep it off. If you do not, you will regret this foolishness in the morning.

You are no challenge to me, you frimpy bit of lace!

Frimpy? Not even on his worst days.

Steel cut steel, dashing away Gabriel’s rapier. Quickly, he delivered a riposte. Sword blades clanged in the chill quiet of the night. Judging the man’s skill in the slight tremor as their blades kissed, Gabriel determined insufficient challenge.

There is only one man— he smashed the hilt of his rapier across the man’s right hand. His opponent’s weapon clanged to the ground. —in all the world— He pressed the drunk backward, stumbling toward the hornbeam wall behind him. —who may use that name.

Juin-Marie?

Gabriel prepared to deliver the coup de grâce.

The man thrust up his hands, palms out to placate. Have mercy on a miserable sot, vicomte!

Too late. Gabriel had touched rage. And this man had named his title correctly. He stabbed the rapier, missing the man’s throat by a hair—then swung up his left fist, connecting with the man’s jaw.

Gabriel toed the idiot heaped at his feet. And that man is not you. Drunken sot.

Juin-Marie had never been overly discriminating regarding choice of lovers. But this one did give him wonder.

He tossed the rapier to his valet, who resheathed it, returning it to an unassuming walking stick.

Stepping over the fallen man’s legs, Gabriel tugged at the lace about his neck and wrists. This party has become dreadfully dull, Toussaint. Bring up the carriage, will you?

Of course. Toussaint skipped around the trimmed boxwood hedge.

Tension slipping away, Gabriel leaned against the wrought iron gate that barred the servants’ entrance from the back courtyard. He drew in a deep breath, the exhale hissing out in a cloud of condensation. The moon expanded well beyond the half-rounded mark. No need for street lamps this night. Not that the miserly lamplighters ever filled the lamps with more oil than to serve a few hours.

A glance to the man sprawled in the thick, hornbeam shadows only raised his ire. He had named him vicomte. And he’d known his family. To be recognized, when he thought to remain anonymous in Paris, would not prove a boon to his covert affairs.

He went to great lengths to create a persona that the aristocracy and city officials would be willing to trust.

The click of a heel followed by a staccato of slow, heavy claps alerted Gabriel. A shadow in the shape of a man glided along the limestone wall of the carriage shed, stretching to monstrous proportions. It stopped over the fallen sot and the singular applause ended. A red-heeled shoe toed the inert body.

I watched from inside, Monsieur Anjou said. Impressive.

Did anyone else see?

Not to worry. Your adventures were discreet. But tell me— The man approached, hands behind his back, and dark wig obscuring all but eyes, nose and a slightly crooked mouth. —why did you not kill him?

With a shrug, Gabriel stated what should be obvious. Life is precious.

Indeed? Some lives are.

The man’s soft epitaph put up Gabriel’s hackles for reasons he could not touch. He was out of sorts, not thinking straight.

It’s a beautiful evening, isn’t it? Anjou paced closer. I could not endure the stifling confines for overlong. Madame de Marmonte’s salon is notorious for—

—fainting women and swooning men. My valet has expired on occasion.

Assuming Leo’s loose stance, Gabriel leaned against the iron gate, crossing his feet at the ankle. The woman insists all windows remain sealed for fear the latest pox or plague will seep in. Pity the old bundle’s a-a-ddiction to vinegar will kill her more slowly and cruelly than any plague might.

He always stumbled on that word—addiction. His second least-favorite word. The first? Comfort.

You give her far too much credit.

Gabriel chuckled at the man who had fixed his gaze high above the estate wall. What is it that has captured your attention? He scanned up two windows capped by smiling stone corbels.

The gargoyle.

Gabriel startled to realize the man’s whisper had been easily heard. Straining his peripheral vision he found Anjou stood beside him. Scent of something musty—perhaps the man’s clothing—taunted his nose. A flicker of caution traced his spine.

Toussaint had walked away with his rapier.

Good sense emerged and Gabriel shook off his wariness. He was merely an old man with horrible fashion sense. Yes, that gargoyle. Interesting creature, isn’t it? Face like a mongrel and a body resembling a lion. With the damnedest set of wings.

Surprising, Anjou rasped. All the city’s sculptures are blackened with soot, but that one is not. The beast appears frozen mid-flight.

Fantastical notion. Gabriel could not prevent a genuine smile. The man possessed a whimsy seldom seen in the social circle he navigated.

Closing his eyes, he took in the calmness of the evening, the crisp scent of dew and the fetid straw Madame de Marmonte kept strewn before her home to muffle the racket of carriage wheels. Tendrils of night jasmine permeated his nostrils, like a ghost beckoning him to follow the night, to surrender to the unknown.

Yet so close lingered that musty shroud.

So, you are the hero this evening, eh Leo?

Nearby, the man on the ground groaned once, lifted his head, and then collapsed.

Hero? Gabriel smirked. Just what I most desire carved onto my tombstone.

You would prefer something else?

How about… He fixed his gaze to the gargoyle. Scent of ancient dust mingled with jasmine. He tried.

Very well, I shall remember that, and try to see it is done. Until then—

A wide, gloved hand squeezed about Gabriel’s neck.

Reacting instinctively, he clenched his fingers and lifted his knee to connect with Anjou—right on target, yet unsuccessful in releasing the clutch. Strong and determined, his attacker.

Attacker?

The man possessed remarkable strength. Gabriel could not budge. The iron gate dug into his shoulders and elbows. He saw his own reflection in the metallic irises that held him a muffled captive.

You see what you want, pretty one?

The Rake Ripper attacks pretty young rakes…

He required a sword, for his strength was outmatched.

Something warm, moist, and sharp touched his neck. Anjou moved his mouth against Gabriel’s neck and began to feed upon him as if a ravenous beast.

Amidst the mystifying horror, a gargoyle swept down from the roof and skimmed over their wicked embrace.

And then…

…the strange suctioning kiss at his neck began to entice.

A kiss?

Just a little kiss. Strong and demanding. Controlling in a manner that diminished further protest.

A strange compliance hazed Gabriel’s mind. Rationale blurred. Enmeshed in an erotically macabre caress, he could no more resist or push away than he could call out.

You must resist. This embrace joining two men is unnatural. It must not be—

Gabriel’s eyelids flickered. His palm slid down the ancient frock coat. A wanting moan spiraled up Gabriel’s throat, escaping into the night on a canorous sigh. He curled his fingers, clinging to a forearm, and pulling the man closer.

He barely registered the shout of another.

You have found the Ripper! We must call for his capture!

His limbs